Filthy Freak
by Pickled Rellish
Summary: Chanslash, non-con, incest. Eight year old Harry Potter could honestly say that he didn’t know where he stood with his Uncle. Sometimes, his Uncle hated him, other times, he loved him. But Harry always feels like a…


**Author's Notes:** I tried to make this not trashy in the least, because that's the last thing that I wanted it to be. I beg for forgiveness regarding grammatical and spelling errors. I do hope you enjoy this little read.

**PLEASE READ! Warning:** Okay, this here holds **Chanslash**, which is were a minor, usually under the age of consent, is having sexual intercourse with an adult. In this case, of the same sex. Which also means that this is **slash**, which is two members of the same sex having sexual intercourse, okay. With me people? This is _also _**non-con**, which means that one member of the party doesn't want to have sex… more commonly known as **rape**. You will find this to be **Vernon/Harry** (therefore also **incest**) and you need only guess who isn't the committing party. It's **rated R** for a reason people, don't say you weren't warned, so if this doesn't tickle your fancy, _piss off _and don't come back. I don't want you bitching at me or to this lame-ass site, 'cause you werea dumbass and didn't read the warnings! You have _**ALL**_ be warned.** PLEASE READ!**

**Summary:** Chanslash, non-con, incest. Eight year old Harry Potter could honestly say that he didn't know where he stood with his Uncle. Sometimes, his Uncle hated him, other times, he loved him. But Harry always feels like a…

**Dedication:** To all you suck fucks who have missed non-trashy non-cons.

**Disclaimer:** Nope. Not mine. Imagine the possibilities if they were though!

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**Filthy Freak  
**By Pickled Rellish

Harry could honestly say that he didn't know where he stood with his Uncle. Moments, when his Aunt Petunia - he'd called her Auntie once, and had a rolling pin thrown at him for the effort - and cousin Dudley weren't there, he did seem to like him, but when they _were _there, the snide remarks and scornful words would always return. Maybe his Uncle just had a split personality?

But eight-year-old Harry Potter didn't mind as much as he should of. He was a freak - that much had be drummed into him - and maybe that was just the way to deal with freaks like him? Maybe other boys and girls Mummy's and Daddy's did things like this to their children? Harry wouldn't know; he didn't have any friends to ask.

When his Aunt and cousin weren't home, like times when Dudley slept over at his friends house and his Aunt Petunia, begrudgingly went to watch Dog Shows with Aunt Marge, Uncle Vernon would allow Harry to sleep in the big bed, in the Master room. A room the child only got a glimpse at through the crack of the door when rushing to use the toilet during the three minute time allowance his Aunt gave him.

It always started out alright at first, and Harry would always relish at being in such a large, and comfy bed, a warm, if not slightly large presence near him. His Uncle would hold him close, murmur into his ear how beautiful he was and how the way he made him feel was good. Harry would just lye on his back, arms resting at his sides as his Uncle threaded his meaty fingers through his tatty hair. Aunt Petunia only let him brush it when guests were due over and may spot him.

His Uncle always lay on his back too, as he allowed his large hands to wander down Harry's tiny, slender frame. His rough hands would always trace a pattern down the thin body, curving over the prominent ribs yet allowing his large pinkie finger to whisper over the child's outie-bellybutton before slipping under the large, and threadbare pants and boxers without trouble.

And while Harry never wanted any of this, the small lad never uttered a word, and would actually start talking to his otherwise unapproachable Uncle, about whatever popped into his mind. From his new reading book at school - _Hopping Mad _- to how his teacher said he was improving in his spelling. He would always be answered with a non-committed grunt as his Uncle worked on lowering the lower body garments, so he could continue to play with his prize. Harry would always continue talking, trying to block out what was happening.

"You're so beautiful," his Uncle always muttered, shifting on the mattress as he edged further down the bed so that he was able to nuzzle between Harry's thighs.

Ignore. "And I can spell 'gnash' - see, g-n-a-s-h. Gnash. Miss McQuillian said that I was a clever boy for not forgetting that the 'g' is silent and gave me a gold star, but Dudley took it off me and ate it."

"Humm," Uncle Vernon usually would mutter in reply, or a, "I see…" Harry thinks that he could have called him a baboon and wouldn't get punished for it. It wasn't as though he was listened to anyway. And with large, weathered hands, his Uncle would always start to stoke him in-between his legs.

Miss McQuillian had told them all about their "privates" and how no one should touch them if you didn't want them too; that you should tell them no. Miss McQuillian had told them all to tell her if anyone, even if it was their Mummy or Daddy, touched them in a way that they didn't like. Harry had yet to say anything to his teacher, he didn't know if it counted that he didn't say anything to his Uncle, that maybe it was his own fault for not speaking up, instead hoping that it'd all go away.

He didn't like what his Uncle did to him, it made his skin itch and he always felt dirty. He always felt guilty as his penis - Miss McQuillian had also told them what their parts were called - hardened under his Uncle's touches, because it was wrong and dirty but it felt nice, and Harry hadn't felt many nice things in his life. The youth vaguely wondered if Uncle Vernon was what Aunt Petunia called a 'dirty old man' - a term she used when tutting at the news of yet another child being raped and murdered by someone.

Harry's babbling would only fade away and stutter off when a blunt finger made itself know in-between his arse cheeks. It was always wet and slippery and Harry never would remember when and if in fact, his Uncle had put it into his mouth and wet it, but he gathered as much - where would the wetness have come from otherwise? No matter how many times Uncle Vernon would push his finger into his arse, Harry always found that it hurt; like a hot, searing pain. But not even at that point, would Harry say anything, because what _could _he say? He'd always just stay laying down on his back, arms at his sides while his legs got pushed up so that they bent at the knees and his Uncle would have better access to what was there.

Never talking by this point, all the eight-year-old would be able to hear would be his own ragged breathing and his Uncle's laboured, aroused gasps. All he'd be able to feel would be the tearing pain of his Uncle's thrusting fingers in his backside, and the near deadly grasp on his penis. Soon though, his Uncle's hand would be replaced by a wet, warm mouth. Harry always hated this part; but longed for it too. He hated how his hips would lift up off the mattress; how he could feel his Uncle smirking around his hard penis; hated how it made him feel so good inside, so tainted.

It would always be around this point that his Uncle's now free hand, would find his own very small one. He'd grip it tightly, and guide it to his own hard, stiff and throbbing member. Seeing as how his Uncle's feet where somewhere above his head - Uncle Vernon always lay that way, Harry's legs pushed out of the way so he could play, yet with his genitals near Harry so he wouldn't be neglected either - there was no problem. The child's tiny, pale, trembling hand would be wrapped around his Uncle's cock - that what his Uncle had said his was called, and Harry darn't to ask if it was the same for his penis - and found little reassurance that he was somewhat normal, given that the size of his Uncle's cock was about the same as his penis.

The mans' fat hand would move Harry's bony one up and down, up and down, in time with the now two finger-thrusting. Harry hated how is Uncle's cock felt; it was tiny, hard and was oozing a milky-like substance and he always found himself wondering why his penis never did that. Of course, his Uncle would soon get bored of that and detach himself from his nephews hardness, removing his fingers also as he shifted on the bed, so that he was now staring down at Harry's face, positioned right in front of the child's entrance.

Harry hated this part more than when his Uncle put his mouth around his penis, because it hurt; it hurt so much he always bit through his lip when his Uncle pushed in. But if the right spot was touched when his Uncle thrust himself inside of him, something felt nice; nicer than his Uncle's mouth. And Harry hated it. He never lasted long though, that it took a maximum of six… seven thrusts before Harry would be filled with… something. Again, Harry wondered why his penis never did anything like that.

And with a _sluuuurk_ and a _pop_, his Uncle would slide out of him and lye down once more, his sweaty body not that far away from Harry's. His Uncle would turn on his side and drag Harry closer to him, spooning himself against the youth who's boxers and pants still hung around his ankles, and Harry would stay still, listening to his Uncle's uneven breath, willing his own hardness away, as that seemed the only way to get rid of it.

Harry always hated laying there, spooned against his Uncle, sticky and sweaty, with something oozing out of his aching behind. The room was always too hot and long had the novelty of sleeping in such a big and luxurious bed wore off. He'd slip off to Dream Land eventually, not in the least lulled to sleep by his Uncle's snoring.

Waking up was never pleasant. Uncle Vernon never knew that Harry was a light-sleeper, but living in the Cupboard Under the Stairs had always made him a light-sleeper and was woke up by the slightest shift in the air. Harry would always wake sleepily to his Uncle touching him in-between his legs and rocking ever-so-slightly against him. He always pretended to be asleep, keeping his eyes shut closed and trying to keep his breathing regular, without swallowing too much, too often. The green-eyed child always thought that his Uncle knew he was awake, but pretending, but Uncle Vernon never seemed to mind, if anything, he always seemed amused by it.

When Harry would finally decide to 'wake-up' he did it slowly and pretended to be confused before being shooed out of the bed and down the stairs by Uncle Vernon, who would wear nothing but a wrinkled and crinkled shirt, black y-fronts which his large stomach would teeter over dangerously, with black socks pulled up on his legs. No word of what happened in the bed would ever be mentioned, and it seemed a non-spoken rule for Harry not to question about it. So the child never questioned his Uncle, never mentioned what happened to his Aunt or in fact, to his teacher. It was after all, an unspoken rule, and Harry didn't want to break any rules, even if he thought Uncle Vernon was by touching him.

And always by the time his Aunt and cousin would arrive home, the sheets were changed, Uncle Vernon was dressed and newly shaven while Harry stood in the kitchen, on his tip-toes, stirring the noodles in the pan as they began to stick to the bottom. While Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon hugged and kissed in the hallway, Dudley would always waddle into the kitchen to pick on the tiny being that was Harry Potter, if only for the sole reason of getting the dark-haired child in trouble. "I hate you."

"I hate you too," was the more than often reply, too use to were this would lead to, to bother about turning his attention from his sticking noodles.

"You're so short I can stand on you. And squish you like a bug. _Harry's a bug, Harry's a bug_!" Maliciously sang.

"Well, you're a whale. A great big fat whale, 'cept you can't breathe under water so you're going to drown!"

"**_MUUUUUM_**!" the inevitable.

Aunt Petunia always came running then, wrapping her snappy arms around her sons huge frame, holding the "sobbing" boy close, whispering into his ear. Harry would always feel a flash of jealously at this point. Then she would point one of her bony, heavy with jewellery fingers at Harry and shout how he was a horrible, good-for-nothing freak, a lay about, someone who wasn't wroth a single hair on her precious Duddle-Dumpkins darlings head. Then she's yell for Vernon, who come charging in loudly, and levelled the child with a glare that would have surely killed him if looks could.

"Boy, how dare you talk to **_my _**son like that!" he always heaved with indigence. "You, a filthy little orphan who's parent's got killed in a drunken car crash; you, a dirty little whelp who isn't grateful for anything that we've done for you and continue to do; you, a freak who deserves to be hidden away in a cupboard. You, a _nobody_." And with the last words spat out, Harry would be lifted by the scruff of his large, too large, top and be thrown into the darkness of his cupboard, the door slamming shut and a snap would always indicate that the bolt had been put in place. Just like him.

No… Harry Potter didn't know where he stood with his Uncle Vernon, he made him feel good; so good, yet bad; so very bad, but always dirty; always a filthy freak.


End file.
